


Panenka (Little Doll)

by Anika_Ann



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Themes, And So Much More, Angry Bucky Barnes, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mention of Kidnapping, Mention of Past Sexual Assault, Protective Bucky Barnes, Reader Needs a Hug, Reader-Insert, Soft Bucky Barnes, graphic desctiption of violence (brief), inspired by a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23838040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anika_Ann/pseuds/Anika_Ann
Summary: After a traumatic experience, you know you have to crawl out of your shell eventually; an Avengers gala to attend with Bucky looks like a perfect opportunity.But healing is a process through which everyone has to go at their own pace.Title from the song which inspired this fic.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94





	Panenka (Little Doll)

**Author's Note:**

> Eh. First time writing Bucky, not sure if it turned out right. But I just heard the song after a long time and it… came to me. 
> 
> The song is Czech and I took the liberty to loosely translate the lyrics. They are incredibly strong to me, but I understand it you don’t want to listen to the song for it is folk/country. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Gmw96HXU_U
> 
> (Not so) happy reading!

_Co skrýváš za víčky (What is it your eyelids hide  
a plameny svíčky, behind the candlelight  
snad houf bílých holubic nebo jen žal? a flock of white doves or nothing but sorrow?_

_Tak odplul ten prvý, So does float away the day one  
den zmáčený krví, a day soaked in blood  
ani pouťovou panenku nezanechal._ _and didn’t left as much as a little doll from a fair.)_

Bucky sees you sitting at the mirror and as hard as he tries… he can’t figure it out. He doesn’t think there _are_ words in any language known to man that would describe how beautiful you are in his eyes.

Your hair is not styled complicatedly, loose strands twirling freely, only few of them half-heartedly pinned to the back of your head; the rest is cascading down your nape and shoulder blades, just like your scarlet-coloured gown cascades down your enticing body. One of your hands – the dominant one – is still in a splint, restraining your movements, but you have put your make-up on with ease as if you have done it thousand times before, applying lipstick now, the last touch to your perfection.

Sometimes, Bucky looks at you and is immensely grateful for breathing being an autonomic function, because he forgets how to do so on his own, air caught in his throat like right now when you stand up straight, casting a glance his direction, catching him staring through the door opened ajar. And you smile; once again, he is reminded how breath-taking you are, even when the smile on your lips doesn’t reach your eyes.

He hasn’t seen a real smile of yours for weeks now and a flare of rage ignites in his chest, quickly put out as you open the door fully, your gaze glued to his face.

Your eyes appear less hollow than the first day they got you back, back from the hellhole where your captors---they— _God,_ Bucky can’t stand even thinking about it, not now, not when you are supposed to attend a gala together. Your first public appearance since your mission going awry, since the intel leak, since your cover being blown, since- _stop!_

Bucky can’t take his eyes off of you and smiles gingerly, not even hesitating to pay you a compliment despite words never seeming like enough to describe what his mind can barely grasp, a beauty so exquisite he wonders if it was created by angels themselves. A beauty of a body, a magnificence of a soul.

“You’re… stunning. So beautiful, doll,” he whispers, uncertain why he can’t make himself to speak at normal volume; perhaps he’s worried he’d set off another waterfall, tears you have cried for days, ones of regret, sorrow and anger; tears you wished for no one to see, not even him.

_Otevři oči, ty uspěchaná, (Open your eyes, you, always rushing,  
dámo uplakaná. my lady with a face stained with tears  
Otevři oči, open your eyes;  
ta hloupá noc končí, this stupid night is to end  
a mír je mezi náma. and there’s nothing but peace between us.)_

There’s a spark of emotion on your face at his words, something real, something Bucky tries to hold onto, swallowing his guilt and ache for later to come out.

Bucky sees you, standing tall, your chin raised in pride, strong and unshakable, ready to face everyone who knew what happened-- and as hard as he tries… he can’t figure it out. He doesn’t think there _are_ words in any language known to man that would describe how brave you are in his eyes.

“Thank you,” you respond in same fashion, beckoning towards the door. “Shall we?”

For the first time, he notices that your lips in fact quiver a little, your smile crooked from how you force it to stay firm. It causes him to hesitate, but he doesn’t yield, doesn’t make the choice for you. As long as you feel ready to walk out and face the vultures of whom at least one will make an inappropriate comment – because of course they will – he will stand by your side. _You_ need to make the decision, pacing your healing by yourself.

He thinks you’re crazy to be honest, crazy to silence the voices no doubt yelling in your head, but that doesn’t diminish his admiration for you, not even a fraction.

Bucky knows what it feels like; he can’t fully comprehend how exactly you feel after what happened, but he can understand to an extent. He knows what it’s like to be violated, what it’s like to be stripped of all dignity and have nothing left but shame and the ever-present urge to rub your own skin clean until it bleeds and washes the past away _._

Bucky has never been… _violated_ that way, but God, does it make him furious and does it burn, an all-consuming flame of rage.

And it certainly isn’t because of the lack of intimacy between the two of you as a consequence of what they have done to you, it’s not the idea of someone else touching you, though that would be maddening enough, it’s not even the nights he has been spending on the couch; it’s the fact you shrink in fear from _any_ unexpected touch, it’s the idea of someone putting their hands on you _against your will_ and it’s the nights he’s woken up at your screams loud enough to make your throat raw and sore.

But here you are, reaching for the pumps ready by the door; slipping one on, you struggle with the other-- and then he sees it; the tremble in your hands, the tear glistening in the corner of your eye.

You cry out in frustration when you have to steady yourself against the wall and his heart breaks. He’s a step from you in an instant; ready to support you, ready to-- to do anything to be honest. Anything to ease the burden laid on you.

Dropping the shoe with a huff and losing the other too, you hide your face in your hands, your palms doing nothing to muffle your choked sob and Bucky’s hands ball in fists.

Images of blood, screams and pathetic begging fill his mind and all he can think of is that he didn’t punch hard enough, didn’t break nearly enough bones, didn’t take enough time to cut the bastards open, to make them _suffer_ so they wanted to slit their own throats only to end the misery he brought upon them-- had they been still able to hold a knife in their shattered fingers. He didn’t put them through nearly enough pain to make up for yours.

Your erratic breathing snaps him from his dark daydream, just in time to witness your knees buckle, your legs on the verge of failing you.

He’s reaching out before he realizes what he’s doing and stops himself hovering an inch from your skin.

“I’m… I’m going to touch you, alright?” he says, a warning and an offer and the tinniest hint of a nod is all he needs before he’s curling a gentle hand around your forearm.

To his utter shock, you spin on your heels and bury your face in his chest, clinging to him for the first time in weeks. 

Bucky isn’t certain whether his heart cracks or melts.

He feels you, a shivering sobbing mess in his arms, and as hard as he tries… he can’t figure it out. He doesn’t think there _are_ words in any language known to man that would describe how strong you are in his eyes despite drenching his suit jacket in tears.

_Už si oblékni šaty, (Go on, dress up at last  
i řetízek zlatý, wear a necklace of gold  
a umyj se půjdeme na karneval. and clean up real nicely; we’re attending a ball._

_A na bílou kůži, And on your snow-white skin  
ti napíšu tuží, in ink I will write  
že dámou jsi byla a zůstáváš dál. that you’ve been a lady and remain one still.)_

His lips brush your hair and another sob – more of a hick-up maybe – escapes your lips pressed together, and you shake your head, pushing with your hands against his chest and he lets you even if you use barely any force.

He hates it; he hates seeing you like this, he hates the whole fucking world for hurting you and he hates himself for being so fucking _useless._

You wipe away the tears and grit your teeth, reaching for your pumps once more and slip into both of them with ease this time, despite your feet quivering in them, despite your whole body shaking.

“We gotta go, come on-“

“Doll,” he addresses you, trying so damn hard to sound gentle when all he wants is to scream, not because he’s angry with you, with your stubbornness, but because- because— _GODDAMMIT!_ “Doll, we don’t-“

“I promised I’d go. I _have to go-”_

Throwing caution to the wind when you actually reach for the handle, legs unsteady like a Bambi trying to stand up for the first time, he curls his fingers around yours and pulls you away from the door.

“What the-“

“You don’t _have to_ do anything. Okay? No obligation. If you want to go, I’ll follow, _always,_ but I-“

“I _do_ want to go!” you snap, possibly aiming for a firm voice and missing my miles as it comes out like a whimper instead. “I just need to do something _normal,_ I need to show them that I’m _fine_ —I- I promised Steve a dance-“

A wet chuckle escapes Bucky despite his inner turmoil, despite his insides twisting in rage and pain; of course you promised that punk a dance. You’d do anything for his pretty eyes, you always say that and then you proceed to kiss Bucky, because he gets all growly in mock jealousy-

You’re shaking your head, new tears rolling down and ruining your perfect make-up and Bucky doesn’t know what to do but to embrace you again, a loose cage you could easily escape should you want to. But you only curl up against him, arms winding around his waist and he sighs, trying and possibly failing at pouring all of his love into one single hug.

“-I just want _normal_. I want to dance. I- I-“

A smile spreads on Bucky’s lips as your voice turns less desperate and more resigned, longing, wistful even. You were not going anywhere tonight, that was for certain, and that was alright. He would tell Friday to let the others know, all in the good time.

He caresses the length of your hair, his flesh hand cupping your cheek and sliding two fingers under your chin, carefully guiding you to look up at his face. Even with your mascara and eyeliner smeared, black paths from your tears running down your cheeks, you take his breath away.

“You wanna dance, doll?” he asks, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips and you shake your head with a bitter chuckle, probably at the image of the two of you, a mess made in heaven, showing up at the party. “We can dance.”

_Otevři oči, ty uspěchaná, (Open your eyes, you, always rushing,  
dámo uplakaná. my lady with face stained with tears  
Otevři oči, open your eyes;  
ta hloupá noc končí, this stupid night is to end  
a mír je mezi náma. and there’s nothing but peace between us.)_

“Yeah…?”

You look at him and he swears his heart stops for a moment. Why does his chest always feel so tight when your eyes lock with his, hopeful, kind and vulnerable?

“Yeah,” he confirms softly. “You can save Steve his dance for another time. It’s just you and me tonight.”

Realization, tender and grateful, shines from your eyes and for the first time in weeks, Bucky believes that what he sees is a hint of happiness, the first ray of hope that you are on your way to recovery and he actually contributes to it. He readjusts his hold on you so you could sway at least and there’s an honest curve to your lips; this time, he’s certain his heart _melts_ and his chest swells with pride and hope that he is worthy of you.

Bucky feels you, content in his arms if only for a moment and as hard as he tries… he can’t figure it out. He doesn’t think there _are_ words in any language known to man that would describe how precious you are in his eyes.

Words that would describe how much he loves you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! (Feedback always appreciated.)


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